The Casualty Clause
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Enterprise has been instrumental in establishing a trade relationship with a new species. But is there a catch?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

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"If you ask me, it's just bloody unnerving."

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed stood to one side of the crowded hall. He was trying very hard to keep all of his charges in sight, but the shifting crowds made that difficult. His temper was fraying. His nerves were already on edge, and had been since the discovery of what kind of people they were about to make 'first contact' with.

"Well, just for once, Loo-tenant, I kinda agree with ya." Trip had wandered over to him in a break between making his contribution to the social small-talk. "But they're really good-lookin', most of them."

"That's just the trouble. What do they _really_ look like? I don't like it at all. I wish the..." He shut his mouth with a snap, aware that he was about to break protocol by criticising his commanding officer aloud.

"You know he wouldn't refuse an invitation." The blue eyes were amused. "'Specially not from people who're this friendly."

"Hmm." He crossed his arms across his chest and refused to be either convinced or consoled.

_Shape-shifters!_ That's what these people were, if one could even define them as 'people' in any real sense – the scanners had given off readings that made no sense whatsoever until the incoming call had been posted up on the bridge. The person who had spoken to them was humanoid – at least, that's the form he or she had chosen to assume, ostensibly in an effort to make their visitors feel at ease. There were quite a few other possible reasons for doing such a thing that anyone as suspicious as the ship's security officer could come up with very readily indeed, and not one of them made him feel good about the situation. The empty space at his right hip where his phase pistol should have been clipped was an almost physical ache. How the hell was he supposed to carry out his primary bloody responsibility properly when he wasn't equipped with the means to do so?

The relative isolation of the landing party down here from any support from the ship was another irritant to his peace of mind. The planet's atmosphere was subject to high-level storms that effectively cut off communication between them and _Enterprise_ while they lasted. They'd flown the shuttle down in one of the relatively rare calm periods, but the activity had started again soon afterwards, though at present it was only intermittent. Not that anybody seemed all that worried about it – anybody but himself, that was. He'd made an attempt to underline the dangers of it and been brushed off, as usual, with the stock insinuation that he was 'paranoid.'

'Paranoid?' He was trained and _paid_ to be bloody paranoid. Or, in security terms, just _very, very careful. _For all the thanks he got for his efforts. He'd occasionally wondered why Captain Archer didn't just make everybody wear badges sporting the words 'Please Kill Me.'

The lieutenant almost glared across to where the captain and Hoshi were absorbed in conversation with President Arritar of the Siurh-halla's Ruling Council. Their host appeared to find the linguist positively enchanting. He (if it was a he) was bending forward towards her, carefully enunciating a series of words for her to mimic. Coming a bit too damned close for propriety, in fact. And the captain, who should have done something about it, was just standing there grinning.

"Lighten up, Malcolm." Trip was as observant as ever. "I'll keep an eye on her."

"That's _my_ job." He affected not to see the knowing twinkle that this terse reply elicited. It was nevertheless somewhat comforting that the chief engineer did indeed make his way across to the little group and slip a brotherly arm around Hoshi's slender waist; and even more so that the president appeared to respond to this gesture by leaving just a little more space between them while he continued to elucidate the mysteries of his world's language for her benefit.

"You did not eat a great deal at the banquet." One of the Siurh-halla had drifted up to him. That was one of the things that he found unnerving – that they _all_ drifted. He hadn't worked out yet how they did it, because their legs seemed to move in exactly the same way as a human's did, but the effect was very different. The gait appeared as stealthy as a cloud even when it was relatively rapid.

"I just wasn't very hungry, thank you." He would never eat much whilst on duty. Surfeit made one slow.

She studied him. She was pretty, if one relied on the evidence of one's eyes, which he reminded himself that he couldn't. Under the intricate coronet around her brows, her dark hair curled around her slender face with its slightly pointed chin. As far as he could discern from the long robes she wore, she had a good figure. But just like the others, there was this – effect that he couldn't stop seeing, the faint but persistent slipping of the visual perception. It was almost as if they were holograms and the programme wasn't perfect. Nevertheless they all seemed to interact without difficulty with a physical world; the glasses were real enough, and she was carrying one in each hand. A hologram couldn't have done that.

"And the wine was not to your taste? We made every effort to make it palatable to your species." She offered him the one in her left hand.

"I'm sure it's delicious. But no, thank you. I'm not allowed to drink while I'm on duty."

The eyes wandered over him. Were they green or blue? He had a suspicion they might have been yellow a few seconds earlier. "I am sorry that you are here only as a duty. We would like you to feel we are your friends."

"The captain's very grateful for your welcome. And your hospitality." He stared back at her through the gun-slit of his defences, yielding nothing.

"And you?" Her hand slipped onto his arm. He could feel the coolness of it through the sleeve of his uniform. "I would wish to be your friend, Lieu-ten-ant Reed."

She was standing too close; suddenly panic clawed at him. "I have no friends when I'm on duty." It wasn't diplomatic, but it was the truth.

"Then perhaps when you are no longer on duty we shall become better acquainted." Her smile was pleasant enough, and she moved away without haste, but sweat had sprung out at his temples. Abruptly he realised that the room was suffocatingly hot and airless.

"Sir, are you all right?" Travis was beside him, which was worrying because he hadn't noticed him arrive and it was his job to notice _everything._

"Hot," he mumbled. There was a buzzing sound in his ears. The room seemed to be going away from him. No. He couldn't be going to –

He regained consciousness on the terrace outside. Travis and Trip had carried him out between them. This in itself would have been mortifying enough, but a small crowd of Siurh-halla had gathered and were peering down at him with intense curiosity.

The chill of the night air on his overheated body made him aware that someone had pulled down the zip of his dress uniform jacket and unfastened his shirt, opening both in the attempt to cool him down. The bluish light of the largest of the planet's three moons lit up the terrace like a searchlight, illuminating his bare torso. For some reason this was intensely frightening when he realised it.

"What the..." He began struggling to sit upright, trying to drag together his clothes, his senses and his dignity.

"Whoa, buddy." Trip held him down gently but firmly. "Just take your time till you feel better."

"I feel fine!" As a matter of fact he didn't feel anything of the sort. He had a headache that actually made him wish he was in Sickbay, and that was something. And his heart was leaping about behind his sternum like something small and terrified in a cage. Banked flowers in tubs had been placed here and there around the terrace, their perfume scenting the night air. The stench of them in the back of his throat was nauseating.

His clearing gaze darted around the crowd, flinching away from the way that none of them except Trip and Travis seemed quite solid. She was there. He'd known she would be. If it was her, and not somebody else. He could feel the eyes on his body, and they were yellower than the third moon that was low on the horizon, grinning across the silver landscape.

"What's going on here?" The captain's voice was quick with concern. "Malcolm?"

"It's nothing, sir. Must have – just got a bit overheated." The automatic lies should have been choking him. It wasn't 'nothing.' It wasn't. Deep water. _Danger._ The alarm bells were clamouring in his head, and that was what he'd thought was a headache.

He clamped a hand around Trip's wrist. "We should get back to the ship. Now."

"I'll fly you up and come back to pick up the others." Tucker looked puzzled and a little alarmed.

"No!" Leaving the rest of the landing party here, unprotected – not for a single minute! His free right hand scrabbled at his hip, trying to draw his non-existent phase pistol from an empty clip. "All of us – all of us should leave!" He could hear somebody's breathing becoming stertorous with fear, and was far too deep in it to realise that it was his own.

"The Lieu-ten-ant is unwell." Her voice was smoother than water sliding over hidden knives. "I am a physician. With your permission, Captain, I will treat him." Seeing him hesitate momentarily, "We will take the greatest care of him."

The buzzing was back. Water – deep water – drowning – _Captain, don't let her – Trip – Phlox –!_

The anguished shriek was the last thing he remembered.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Please note that this story contains some mildly adult material.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The evening seemed to have gone on forever, though a glance at his chronometer showed Trip that by ship time it wasn't even close to midnight. He was a little tired from the socializing – diplomacy had never been his strong suit. He glanced somewhat enviously at Jon, who appeared to be still as fresh as a daisy.

When he withdrew his attention again one of the Siurh-halla had materialized at his side. It was the woman who'd supervised Malcolm's removal to some place of care after his faint. He took it for granted that she'd come to him to report on his friend's condition.

"He is well," she said, even before he'd spoken, thus confirming his supposition. "But it will be best if he rests until tomorrow." She laid a hand on his arm and looked up at him with an expression he'd seen far too often to mistake it. "We have prepared comfortable quarters for you all. If you wish, I will escort you to them."

He took a sip of his wine to give himself a space for thought. It certainly _appeared_ as if she was offering to do a lot more than show him to his room and leave him there. He wasn't nearly vain enough to think that was necessarily the case, but if it was, he had a problem. On the one hand, if she really was coming on to him he had no intention of taking her up on it, but this damned diplomacy thing meant he had to be seriously careful about how he phrased what she would undoubtedly perceive as a rejection. On the other, he might just be reading way too much into it. Perhaps on this world it was just manners with a high gloss for attractive women to escort single male visitors to their rooms whilst giving them what on Earth would be unmistakably come-and-get-it-big-boy looks.

"I'm really grateful for the offer," he said at last, giving her a smile that was as winning as he could make it in the circumstances. "But I think I'd best hang around here till the party's over. I don't think the captain would be too pleased if I disappeared early from an official shindig like this."

"Your captain will understand." Her eyes were enormous, bluer than the Florida sea, but he could have sworn that when he'd first encountered them they were green. "My name is Ta'he'aya. I am the D'hoja. I am the power behind the Council. If I want something, I have it."

Up till that point, part of him had been – if not tempted – at least faintly regretful, on more than one level. But that sheer breathtaking arrogance doused his interest as though cold water had been thrown over him.

"I guess you haven't met many humans then, ma'am," he replied at last, making no effort to mask the spark of anger. "I'm really sorry to disappoint you, but I'm already spoken for."

She stepped back and surveyed him with an expression he found hard to decipher. Certainly there was anger in it, but there was a chilling calculation in it too. And somewhere, a thread of amusement.

"So. We will regard the matter as closed. For now," she added silkily. Without waiting for his reply, she turned and drifted into the crowd.

_For good, you mean,_ he thought to himself. He tossed back the rest of his wine, and tried to repress a shudder.

The party came to a close in the early hours of the morning. By this time Trip was just about out on his feet; Travis was swallowing a yawn every other minute; and even Jon looked somewhat worn by his diplomatic exertions. It was surprising that Hoshi wasn't asleep standing up.

They were led to a guest suite that was sumptuous in the extreme. They would probably have made more of it if they hadn't been so exhausted by now. All four of them had no more on their minds than finding their beds and toppling into them.

There were five bedrooms attached to the suite. They were all empty. No doubt Malcolm was still being cared for elsewhere, in the medical facility. The memory of the earlier incident still lay on the back of Trip's mind like a shadow, but he couldn't make up his mind whether to mention it. The thought that it might just have some effect on the bigger picture at some point made his decision for him, however, and as he opened the door to his room he tossed off a superficially teasing remark to the effect that some woman claiming to be 'behind the Council' had tried to hit on him earlier.

"How come you're always the lucky one, Commander?" demanded Travis, laughing.

Hoshi just rolled her eyes. It wasn't clear whether she was doing so because of Trip's ability to attract women or because of Travis's professed inability to understand the reasons for his success.

"That was mentioned in the briefing, sir," she said patiently. "One Siurh-hal acts as kind of a head of state."

"I thought they were called 'Siurh-halla?' " asked Travis.

"That's the plural form." She sighed, probably at his failure to absorb even this much linguistic information. "I don't know if she has any actual power. The database they supplied didn't go into much detail about her."

"Guess I just had to pick someone real important to offend," said Trip with a grimace.

Jon was, of course, aware of his relationship with T'Pol, though in an official capacity he was choosing to turn a blind eye to it. He paused, frowning.

"Why didn't you mention this earlier?" he asked.

"Not the easiest thing to mention in company." The chief engineer shrugged. "She tried. I refused. End of story. I didn't think it was that big a deal." He tried to sound as if he believed himself that it wasn't, and hoped he succeeded. Perhaps not as well as he'd have liked, for the captain looked at him narrowly.

"And how did she take it?"

"Can't say she was delighted," he admitted. "But I think she got the picture. I did my best to let her down gently, but she was kind of ... insistent." He looked at his waiting bed. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to put his head down on that beckoning pillow and sleep the clock round. He deliberately ignored the warning voice – whose accent was annoyingly British – which whispered in his inner ear that the situation was far from resolved, and that they could all, in fact, be in considerable danger.

"I suppose it could have been a bit difficult." Archer considered. "Thanks for mentioning it, anyway. If it comes up now by any chance I won't be blindsided. Not that I suppose it will. It's hardly the sort of thing she's going to go around discussing." He was still frowning a little, though, and perhaps he too was hearing a nagging British voice, because he followed Hoshi into her room and checked that the windows were secure.

"You can check my room too if you like, Captain." Travis must have been hitting the punch rather too hard, because that was hardly the sort of offer he was usually likely to come out with. Nevertheless, his commanding officer took it in the spirit in which it was intended, and grinned back at him.

"Oh, they can kidnap you, Travis. I only mind if they take someone useful."

"Thanks a lot, Sir!" The helmsman laughed and disappeared into his room, where he probably didn't put all that much effort, if any, into checking the windows before tumbling into bed.

"Wonder if I should check on Malcolm first." Indecision showed on Captain Archer's face.

"He's probably out for the count." Trip yawned so widely his jaw cracked. "They probably gave him somethin' to make him sleep anyway. He won't thank you for findin' out if he snores."

The thought of the prim and proper Brit snoring made them both grin.

"I'll leave it till the morning. 'Night, Trip."

"'Night, Jon. Wake me up if I oversleep."

With his friend's forceful response to this playful request still cracking his face, the engineer went into his room and shut the door.

At which point he was attacked.

They knew what they were doing. Almost before he could draw breath there was heavy cloth across his mouth, smothering any cry he might have made. It was saturated with some kind of drug that his lungs sucked in involuntarily, and that made his senses reel.

He fought, notwithstanding; fought with all the strength he had, trying to remember all the moves he'd had drilled into him in the bouts in the gymnasium on board ship. He got in a couple of hits and kicks that would have made his strict English mentor smile approval, but he was outnumbered four to one, and within moments the sharp prick of a needle in his arm brought a wave of dizziness that effectively put a stop to his resistance.

How they got him out of the room, he didn't know. There seemed to be a period where he was being carried down a darkened corridor. Partway through this the effects of the injection seemed to wear off a bit, and he started to fight for his freedom once more. A hard blow to the side of the head – probably with the base of a fist – put an end to that, and he sagged in their hands. His own were tied behind his back. He couldn't remember it happening, but the cords were cruelly tight around his wrists. He wanted to yell for help, just in the remote chance someone somewhere might be listening; there was nothing across his mouth any more, but whatever he'd inhaled seemed to have affected his breathing. Try as he might, it was all he could do to get enough oxygen to prevent himself from passing out. He certainly had none to spare for shouting.

He'd thought he was too exhausted to struggle any more, but when they carried him into the ill-lit room the awareness of sudden and imminent danger released reserves he didn't know he possessed.

The party looked to have been going on for some time. The air was heavy, and his quick breathing became labored as his lungs tried to get more oxygen from an atmosphere that didn't seem to contain much of it any more. Each intake made his head spin worse, but the shrill warnings went on and on as his blurred gaze tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

The floor was mostly a sea of rugs and cushions, all colors and textures so that the very complexity of hue and pattern defeated his attempt to perceive detail. There was food and wine, some of it on plates and in cups, some of it on the floor, and some of it on the guests. Fortunately the lamps were few and far between, so the activities in the further corners were mostly left to guesswork, if you cared to guess.

Trip didn't.

He tried again to free his wrists. Maybe it was the stuff they'd injected him with that prevented him from feeling the pain, because struggling like this ought to hurt, and wetness running into his cramped fingers would have told him he'd sawn the cord through the skin if his brain was still capable of processing the information. Right now that task was well down the list of his priorities and he didn't even feel it.

Ta'he'aya was on the far side of the room, directly opposite him. He could feel her presence like a thickening of the air, like a decrease of light. She was sprawled in something like a huge, cushioned throne, watching him.

Her smile was poison.

They half-carried and half-pushed him towards her. She watched him, sipping from an ornate goblet containing some dark liquid that stained her mouth. A slight, painted figure crouched beside her left knee, toying with the beads on her sandals and paying no attention to anything else.

A delicate motion with one hand halted his resisting progress.

She drank a little more and then set down the goblet on a small table and sat perfectly still for some minutes, studying him. His breath was coming back to him slowly. At least now he'd be able to speak if he had to.

"No one refuses me, Starfleet," she said mildly.

"No one up till now, ma'am." He thought of T'Pol and set his teeth. "And if your council are interested in tryin' to set up good relations with Earth, this isn't exactly the way to go about it."

"You have not been harmed." She sounded amused. "The effects of the drugs are temporary. Any ... marks ... on your body can be removed. If you cooperate I promise you that you will all leave in safety. We will even arrange for you to remember nothing, if that is what you wish. And no one need ever know."

"I won't remember anythin', because there won't be anythin' to remember," he said doggedly. He still had to husband air more carefully than usual, but he could say what he needed to. "You might as well just let me go, ma'am. Whatever game you want me to play, I'm not playin' it."

"I play no 'games,' Starfleet. I am accustomed to being obeyed. You should understand that. I believe that your captain exercises authority, and as an officer you do so in your turn."

"With respect, ma'am, you're not my captain. And if any Starfleet captain did this to a junior officer he'd be stripped of his command pretty damned quick."

"Then it is fortunate indeed that I do not hold my authority from Starfleet. I hold it from who I am, and those who live on this world do not refuse me. You have tested my patience already. I advise you to test it no further." The horrible thing was that she didn't even sound angry. She was even smiling as she spoke. "Be sure that you will find it pleasurable. I have endless experience."

She stood up. The painted creature sat back, rocking backward and forward on its haunches, whimpering, as the beads were removed from its grasp.

Slowly she drifted forward. They held him still. Her perfume was cloying. The shimmer of light in the stones of her coronet hurt his eyes. He kept himself upright, rigid with rage and humiliation, while she slid her hands under his shirt. Her nails scraped lightly along his skin. _Any marks on your body can be removed._ He thought of T'Pol again and shut out what was happening to him.

"I said that you would find it pleasurable." Her voice was a low susurration of sound under his lifted chin. "I offer you one last chance."

"Go to hell."

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Please note that this story contains some mildly adult material.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Jonathan Archer was in the middle of a deeply confusing dream about trying to convince a Tellarite delegation to make sherry trifle in the Mess when he was roused by an almost hysterical chief engineer shaking him by the shoulders so hard he almost fell out of bed.

"Jon, wake up! Ya gotta wake up!"

"'Swrong? Trip?" He hadn't had nearly enough sleep to get his thoughts straight. Nevertheless the urgency in his friend's voice went straight to his suprarenal glands, bypassing his brain so that even before he unglued his eyes his blood was pumping adrenaline around his system. He sat up in bed, shaking his head in the vain hope that this might help him get some kind of a handle on the situation. "Trip, what's up?"

"I was kidnapped!"

The side light was on in his room. It was more than sufficient to show him the other man, partly dressed, disheveled, flushed and agitated.

"You were _what?"_ A grimace of pure bewilderment creased his face. "Who by? And how did you get away?"

"It was – it was _her!_ An' they tied me up –." Trip thrust forward his hands, palms uppermost. They were certainly not tied now.

The captain peered at them. Looked closer, frowning.

"Trip, I can't see a mark on them."

The engineer himself looked down at his wrists. There was indeed not a single crease on them. If the situation hadn't been so surreal, and so potentially serious, the amazement on his face would have been comical.

"Jon, they were – they were bleedin'! I _felt _it!"

Archer felt the knots in his stomach begin to loosen. He ran a weary hand over his face. He'd had Tellarites and sherry trifle, Trip'd had a kidnapping. Whatever the Siurh-halla had put in that punch, he was going to make sure none of the landing party had any more before they left. For one thing, Travis was going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning – later on this morning, he amended to himself.

"Trip, you were dreaming," he said tiredly. "Go back to bed."

"I WAS NOT GODDAMN DREAMING!" bawled Trip.

"Shut the hell up before you wake the whole place!" Tiredness flared into annoyance too quickly. "So if you were kidnapped, Trip, how and by whom, and how come you're in my room without a mark on you after nobody even noticed you were gone?"

"I – she –." He ripped his shirt open, checking his torso frantically. There wasn't so much as a graze on that either. "Jon, it was real! It happened, I swear to God it did!" He looked desperately at his chronometer. "Two hours! I swear to God, it wasn't that long – they must'a knocked me out!"

"Trip, you've been _asleep._ In bed. Dreaming. It was just really vivid, that's all." With a superhuman effort he kept hold of his temper; he could remember a few occasions himself when reality had been less real than a dream he'd woken up from. "Now go back in there and settle down. You must have been worn out, you were so tired you probably just lay straight down on the bed and nodded off."

_"I – did – not – go – to – sleep – at – all,_" hissed Trip. "As soon as I went in there they were waitin' for me. Four of 'em! And they took me to this place, and she was there..."

"And she took all your clothes off and you had amazing sex." Archer interrupted him ruthlessly. It didn't take much imagination to work out where this particular dream had come from, and he certainly didn't want to hear the gory details. "I'll be envious in the morning, Trip. Right now I'm too damned tired. Go back to bed." And he lay down again, hoping that his friend would take the hint if he wouldn't take orders.

"I'm gonna check Travis and Hoshi."

The captain sat up again. This was starting to feel like a worse dream than the one with the Tellarites and the sherry trifle. "If they file charges I'll put it on your report!"

"You can set it to goddamn music and sing it to Admiral Gardiner if you like – I'm gonna check!"

Groaning words that were really not in keeping with the standards expected of his rank, Archer crawled out of bed and pulled on his boxer shorts. After a moment's thought he pulled on his pants as well. Travis wouldn't be so much of a problem (in the unlikely event that the invasion of his room woke him) but Hoshi was a different issue. With her super-sensitive hearing she might be awake already, disturbed by Trip's bellowing. It would just about put the icing on the cake having two officers in a state of advanced indecency opening her bedroom door. The days were long gone when she freaked out at the drop of a decaying corpse, but even so he wasn't about to add more to her problems than he could help. And besides, he owed something to his own dignity in front of a junior officer.

"So help me God, Trip, this had better not be a joke."

"Cap'n, I swear to God, there is _somethin'_ really wrong here. I just wanna make sure the others are okay."

Very quietly they opened the door to Travis's room. The light was ample to show them his strongly-built frame sprawled across the sheets. His breathing was reassuringly slow and even.

"Well, he seems fine," said the captain in a low voice as they shut the door again. "But we'll be lucky if we get away with it with Hoshi."

With agonizing care they opened the door and peeped inside, intending to take no more than the briefest glance to make sure she was safely and soundly sleeping where she ought to be.

She was certainly sleeping, and superficially safe. But it was immediately obvious that her sleep was anything but restful. She was tangled in the sheets, jerking like a marionette. Small choked whimpering noises broke from her throat.

"She's havin' a nightmare," whispered Trip.

"Just like the one you had, I guess," snapped Archer under his breath. "But I think she needs waking from this one."

"Jon, you're not supposed to..."

He knew perfectly well that perceived wisdom said that one shouldn't wake a person from a bad dream, but by the noises Hoshi was making she'd probably be damn grateful to be rescued from whatever was happening to her now.

He switched the lights on so that on waking she'd see immediately that it was just him and Trip, and that she was absolutely safe. Then he walked over to the bed. She looked pitifully small and vulnerable in the middle of it. Her skin was damp with sweat, her hair tangled from where she'd been tossing her head on the pillow.

"Hoshi. Hoshi, wake up. You're having a dream."

She didn't respond. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. He pulled up a discarded sheet and draped it over her so that she'd feel less uncomfortable with her rather exposed state when she woke up, then placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her – at first gently, then with more vigor, calling her name again as he did so.

After perhaps thirty seconds – a seemingly endless thirty seconds – her eyes flew open and she jerked upright. She screamed out, _"They're hurting him!",_ and then she burst into tears.

"Hoshi, it's just a dream!" Instinctively he put his arms around her, and she cuddled up to him, sobbing. Right at that moment, Starfleet regulations seemed irrelevant. He awkwardly tried to keep the sheet wrapped around her too. At the moment she didn't seem to know or care that she was showing more than was strictly proper, but when she woke up fully and realized what was going on, she might be embarrassed.

"Jon, you're not gonna tell me this is a coincidence!"

"Oh, for God's sake! We've all been dreaming, that's all. We don't know what sort of things they put in the food. Maybe they have some kind of hallucinogenic effect on humans. I'm not going to raise the place just because two of my staff have had nightmares!"

"It's not a dream, it's _not_," Hoshi sobbed into his shoulder. "They're hurting Malcolm. He's screaming!"

"Hoshi!" He pushed her to arms' length and stared into her face. "_Malcolm? _Did you hear him when you were asleep? Can you hear him now?"

"It wasn't like that!"

"Then tell me what it was like."

She pushed her disheveled hair back off her face and fought visibly for control. "I was there. I saw him."

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Please note that this story contains some mildly adult material.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

They had some difficulty in finding anyone of any authority to speak to. There were a few guards and servants about, but none of them seemed either willing or able to conduct them to the medical facility.

Eventually a sleepy Siurh-hal steward was unearthed who seemed willing to take their demand seriously. He didn't seem willing – or able – to disguise his incredulity at the manners of these Starfleet visitors who conceived an irresistible urge to disturb half the palace to see for themselves that their colleague was in good hands. Their implied distrust of the quality of care the sick man was receiving was an insult in itself.

"This is highly irregular. The man is resting," the steward complained.

"I'm aware of that. I don't want to disturb him. It'll be enough if we just see him. Unless you've any objection." Archer's tone suggested that he very much hoped he hadn't, and luckily the hint seemed to be taken.

"I must insist you do not speak to him, but if it will put your mind at rest…." He led the way down a maze of corridors and pushed a door open.

The room was small, but immaculately clean. It contained no furniture except a bed, and on that bed lay the supine figure of _Enterprise_'s armory officer. He must be very deeply asleep, possibly even sedated, thought the captain, for normally on away missions Reed slept as lightly as a cat and the sound of an opening door would have awakened him instantly.

"Are your minds quite at ease about him now?" There was a faint undercurrent of sarcasm in the query, and Captain Archer didn't miss it.

"I take the responsibility for my crew very seriously," he said rather sharply. "If I want to check on them – day or night, for any reason – that's part of my duty. And I'd appreciate it if that can be borne in mind in future." He glanced at Hoshi, who'd moved very quietly closer to the bed and was staring hard at the man lying on it. "Ensign, we've been told not to disturb him. Time we were leaving."

"Yes, Captain." But she hesitated an instant longer, and when she did obey him the frown on her face had deepened rather than dissipated.

She said nothing, however, until the three of them had been escorted back to their suite. Then she put her mouth close to his ear and whispered, _"Captain, that wasn't Malcolm."_

He stared at her blankly. In his mental turmoil he very nearly forgot to whisper in his turn. _"WHAT?"_

_"His breathing. It was wrong. I don't think it was human at all."_

Trip had been briefly silenced by this demonstration of his colleague's 'safety.' Now he evidently deduced without difficulty that the situation was not, after all, as straightforward as it had appeared.

_"Check Travis,"_ he whispered, when the news had been passed on to him. He was evidently having a whole lot less difficulty accepting the idea than Jon was; the captain's brain felt fit to burst with the conflict of ideas and evidence.

Once again they crept into Mayweather's room. The young helmsman had turned over in his sleep and was now lying with one arm trailing off the edge of the bed. It looked uncomfortable, but none of them cared to risk waking him by moving it.

_"He's fine, Captain."_ She mouthed the words rather than speaking them, and gestured that they should leave the room. It was probably not the best idea to shut the door, just in case some unknown fate was waiting to descend on Travis as well, but they drew it close to minimize the disturbance.

"Tell you what, Hoshi. Would it make you feel better if the cap'n and I gave you a rub down in the shower?"

For one split second Archer thought that Trip had completely lost his mind. Then he caught the intensity of the blue stare and the small, circular, hidden movement of the upright index finger indicating the room. _Surveillance _devices? His brain hurt even worse. Trip thought they were being _spied on?_

He thanked his lucky stars that Hoshi was equally quick on the uptake. Only for the briefest instant did she look as though she actually believed that in the middle of all this, her superior officer was genuinely suggesting that he and her captain were in the habit of sharing a shower with her. So many emotions struggled on her face that it was only surprising that the muscles in it didn't go into a seizure.

"Yes, sir. I think I … I think I'd really enjoy that." Her voice quavered only a little. Time was when she'd have gone into hysterics on the spot in this situation, and the captain squeezed her elbow encouragingly under cover of supposedly steering her towards the bathroom.

"You know we always make you feel good." _I don't suppose the database says anything about behavior like this._ With any luck the Siurh-halla wouldn't have gone into the fine detail of what was or wasn't acceptable behavior between ranks on a starship. Though it was doubtful whether it would have been particularly informative on such topics as this even if they had. With the crawling sensation of being about to label all Starfleet command personnel as perverts who preyed on junior officers – and that on the slenderest and most superficially lunatic of excuses – he followed Trip into the bathroom.

It was always possible, of course, that this room was bugged as well. Unfortunately they had no scanners with them to test it. It was only the engineer's instinct that suggested they were being monitored at all, but Archer had learned to trust Trip's gut feelings. They had to take the chance that some kind of decency in their hosts would have made them install only an audio device in here; it was a remote chance at best, but it was the only one they had.

He left the adjoining door half open, partly to keep an ear open for any sound from Travis's room for as long as possible and partly to allay any suspicion. It would add verisimilitude if anyone who was watching saw them supposedly stripping off. _It's no worse than decon,_ he told himself resolutely. He removed his pants and tossed them carefully into a position where they'd be partly visible, gesturing to the others to do the same. Experience helped, recreating for them the standard polite professionalism that really was Starfleet practice.

Trip switched on the shower and tested it. "In you go, Ensign. Make yourself comfortable till we join ya." Carefully he aimed the spray at the glass side of the cubicle which seemed likely to afford the most noise from it. "Better remember to keep the actin' up every now and again," he mouthed.

"If we're going to be drummed out of Starfleet for this we might as well go the whole hog," growled the captain under his breath.

With an inward groan of utter despair he stepped into the cubicle. The water bouncing off the side instantly began soaking his blues, just as it was Hoshi's.

"Every time I see you like this I remember how lucky we are to have you on board," he said aloud, speaking to the glass above her head because he was too embarrassed to look her in the face. He could only pray that the Siurh-halla didn't recognize a lame line when they heard one; it was like something out of a really awful movie, but he couldn't think of anything better on the spur of the moment. And a human would have heard the note of his voice ring as false as a cracked bell, but hopefully the eavesdroppers wouldn't.

"I'm lucky to have two handsome officers who'll do this for me." Meek, shy little Hoshi was actually _grinning_ at him, he realized incredulously, though unsurprisingly it was a forced grin at best; it was he, to his intense chagrin, who was blushing.

"RHIP, they say. 'Rank Has Its Privileges.' " Trip had evidently decided to go for an acting award. His voice was positively lascivious. "Move over, in there."

"Moving over."

The chief engineer joined them. Just for good measure Hoshi produced a loud moan, and Jon's blush deepened to crimson.

"You do realize we won't be able to finish this till we get back to the ship," he said, praying that the circumstances would make his body listen to what he wasn't saying rather than what he was. Otherwise … well, there'd better not _be_ an 'otherwise.' "They haven't given us big enough beds."

"Can't we improvise a bit, Cap'n?" Trip was evidently enjoying his friend's discomfort, if nothing else. His eyes gleamed with devilment and desperation.

"Just call this a taster." He leaned in close and hissed in Hoshi's ear, "Please tell me you're _absolutely sure_ about Malcolm."

"Absolutely certain, Captain," she hissed back. "The chest resonance was all wrong."

"Like I said, you're a real asset to the ship." At least he could infuse genuine feeling into that, and the relief made him smile, though it, too, was a strained one that was hardly more than a grimace.

Under the cover of the water noise Trip related the details of what had happened to him, as best he could recall them. One thing he couldn't remember was how the encounter had ended. There was simply a gap in his memory for which he couldn't account, one which ended with him turning up, alone and unhurt, on his bed. "I don't know why she just gave up like she did, Cap'n. Unless she just realized she wasn't gonna get anywhere with me," he finished. His eyes were dark with dread. "But I remember – she said if I co-operated we'd all leave safely afterward." He swallowed, and obviously couldn't bring himself to articulate the obvious corollary, that it was because of his refusal that Malcolm was somewhere unknown, and almost certainly in extreme danger.

"Stop blaming yourself, Trip." The captain put an arm gently around the younger man's shoulder. "You know the last thing he'd want is for you to give in to blackmail. No matter what."

"It's easy to say. Kinda hard to believe." Tucker stared at Hoshi. "Hosh, what did you … what were they doin' to him?"

"He was tied down." She shuddered. "That woman … the one who said she'd look after him … she was touching his face. And he was screaming, like it was burning him."

"Damnation." His mouth twisted. "How soon can we contact the ship?"

"About another hour." Nausea was cramping Archer's stomach at the thought of what might be happening to his tactical officer. Unfortunately, the atmospheric storms were still in full swing – he'd already seen through the windows that the sky had clouded over, and an attempt to contact the ship had produced nothing but the crackle of static. T'Pol had contacted him with details of the expected duration of the latest weather blackout shortly before it happened, so she wouldn't be expecting contact. She'd have no idea that anything was wrong.

"Captain!" Hoshi grabbed him suddenly by the arm. "There's someone in the room outside!"

_Travis! _They weren't getting his helmsman as well. With an inarticulate shout of rage, the captain plunged out of the shower and through the door, Trip hard on his heels. Hoshi was close behind them.

T'Pol looked at the three of them in surprise.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Please note that this story contains some mildly adult material.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

In the circumstances, he waited for Hoshi's nod to confirm that this really was T'Pol. It seemed hardly short of miraculous that she'd turned up so opportunely, even though the lifting of both eyebrows indicated the degree of her surprise at finding them all apparently showering together in their underwear. The explanations for that, however, would have to wait until later.

Fortunately, the Vulcan's breathing passed the test. For whatever reason, she really had come down from _Enterprise_ to find them.

"There is a situation on board the ship which requires your immediate attention, Captain," she said. "I could not wait until communication was restored; I flew down in Shuttlepod Two so that I could speak to you personally. By amending our orbit we were able to discover a suitable clear area where it was safe to fly down and complete the journey indirectly, beneath the storm layer. The window of opportunity should remain open for a time, but we should leave quickly."

"Well, I don't know what the problem is but I'm real glad to see you." He pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around himself, trying to restore a little of the dignity appropriate to a captain as well as stop himself dripping all over the polished flooring. Now that she was here, giving him the chance to get back to the ship without causing a major diplomatic incident, the sense of helpless impotence had passed. "So what's wrong?"

"That is classified information, Captain. I would rather discuss it when we are back on the ship. I have sent word to the Council that you will be returning with me."

"Malcolm," said Trip involuntarily.

"We shall deal with the problem of Lieutenant Reed in due course. At present I believe our wisest course will be to return to _Enterprise_, where we can discuss the matter in hand in detail."

Archer's eyes cut to her sharply. Her very inexpressiveness was revealing. Somehow she knew what was going on – or at the very least, that something was very, wrong.

"It's that bad?" He infused a great deal into the tones of those three words, and after all the time she'd spent on board ship he was pretty sure she'd catch almost all of them.

"It may well be." Her tone in return was subtly shaded.

"Then we'd better get going. Trip, wake Travis. Throw cold water over him if you have to, but get him up as fast as you can. And I hope our hosts don't take any offense at us leaving without saying goodbye." For the sake of diplomacy he made the last sentence ever so slightly louder, so that it might be picked up with clarity.

Sometimes, he thought, as the landing party hurriedly threw on clothing anyhow over their damp underwear, this whole diplomacy thing made him sick. Malcolm was being tortured somewhere and he still had to keep up the damned pretense that everything in the garden was rosy.

If ever circumstances freed his hand, then _someone _was going to be goddamn sorry.

* * *

"We have received a transmission from the _Kumari_," T'Pol said as the shuttle finally lifted into free space; Travis and Trip were flying the other, and Hoshi was with them. "It appears that Commander Shran heard by circuitous means that we were visiting this planet. A member of his crew had information gathered from an admittedly vague source as to certain dangers inherent in contact with the Siurh-halla. The gist of the message was that we should be on our guard, as the offer of a trading alliance could be found to be the cover for a …" she paused, wrinkling her brow slightly over the strange expression, " 'honey trap.' "

"There's no 'could be' about it," he said bitterly. "They damn near got Trip and they _have_ got Malcolm. The instant that storm clears I want you to find his biosign and transport him out of there."

"It will cause offense," she warned.

"You know what? I'm beyond caring. I want to get him back on board and then send a complete report to the Admiralty. And if the trade agreement falls through, I don't give a damn." He glanced aside at her. "So there isn't actually any crisis on board ship at all?"

"None whatsoever. It was merely necessary to contrive an excuse for you to leave before the 'honey trap' closed on you." She looked bleak. "It is regrettable that it appears to have closed on Lieutenant Reed."

"He tried to warn us last night. I should have listened to him." Archer sighed. "There sure was something strange going on down there. Hoshi had a dream – some kind of hallucination – that she saw them torturing him. And Trip said he was kidnapped, but for some reason they let him go."

The quality of the silence beside him made him look closer.

"I get the feeling you're not all that surprised."

"Not entirely." If a Vulcan could sound defensive, they'd sound _exactly_ like his first officer did right now.

"You knew something was happening."

"Yes." Her mouth shut like a trap, but he couldn't just leave it there.

"Mind telling me exactly how?"

"It is … personal, Captain. Commander Tucker and I have … a mental connection." Her discomfort was palpable.

He sat back in the shuttle seat and surveyed her. He'd suspected for quite a while that something was going on between the two of them, but this…. "Is this something I need to know about on an official basis?"

"No. It will not affect our performance as officers. We would have informed you of it otherwise."

"Then I guess we'll leave it at that." A pause. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"It would be difficult to describe. I was aware of an … attempt on his mind. An attempt to take control of it. I was able to assist him to resist it."

_Otherwise we'd have _two_ hostages tying our hands, _thought the captain bleakly.

They were approaching _Enterprise_ now. He couldn't remember ever thinking so fervently how much the ship represented a haven, safety, security. She'd always been beautiful in his eyes; now she was so much more than that. Out here, in these potentially deadly places, she was _home. _And her crew had become members of his extended family. Every one of them mattered to him. He wasn't going to let anyone get away with hurting a man under his command.

The shuttles docked without incident. He took time to detour to his quarters for a change of clothes before heading for the bridge. Trip and T'Pol came with him; Travis and Hoshi were ordered to visit Sickbay for a thorough check-up. The gamma shift crew goggled at him – in the normal course of things they rarely saw him save for a few moments at change-over. Right now he had no attention to spare for their amazement.

"Return the ship to station over the Council buildings," he ordered. "As soon as the storm clears enough, start scanning for Lieutenant Reed's biosign." He glanced across at Trip. "And I want you to go down to Sickbay and have Phlox check you over next, make absolutely sure you're okay. And he'll need all the information he can get about whatever drugs they used on you for when we get Malcolm back." He felt the weight of their hope, their belief, settle across his shoulders. They _would_ get Malcolm back. He'd make damned sure of it.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Please note that this story contains some mildly adult material.**

**OC Em Gomez used with the kind permission of Chrysa.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

But his certainty took a blow when the storm finally ebbed sufficiently for the sensors to penetrate. They scanned the town from one end to the other and found not a single human biosign. Even when they widened the search to include the whole area, fearing that he'd been removed to some other place of concealment, they found nothing.

"Could he be dead?" asked Travis, very low.

Archer winced. He'd ordered the two ensigns to change and get something to eat once they were cleared by Phlox, but Hoshi had just come back on to the bridge in time to hear that statement

"We would pick up the signal of his body if it was still intact." T'Pol's voice was level. Time had been when the captain would have missed the note of compassion in it.

"Widen the search further. I want that planet scanned from top to bottom. They went to the trouble of taking him, I won't believe they've just disposed of him that quickly." He glanced at Travis and Hoshi. "Go to your quarters and try to get some sleep. I'll inform you immediately when we get some news."

To judge by his comm officer's gray face she wasn't in much danger of sleeping anytime soon, but at least she'd be somewhere private. At a guess, Travis would keep her company; he knew that the two of them had a deep friendship.

To satisfy his desire for action and relieve at least some of the frustration that was simmering inside him, he retired to his ready room and finished the report he'd been compiling for Starfleet while he waited for the storm to abate. He re-read it twice, deleted a few words that too accurately conveyed his state of mind, and sent it. Then he went down to Sickbay to see how Trip was getting on.

"I have given him a mild sedative, Captain. It will help his system to return to normal." Phlox's swift explanation removed the mild wonder that the Chief Engineer did nothing more than smile sleepily from the nearest biobed when he entered.

"So have you found out anything about what they did to him?"

"Certainly. He was injected –" the Denobulan scowled at the use of such a primitive system of administering drugs – "with several substances. There appears to have been something that interfered somewhat with his body's ability to take up oxygen; there was a potent analgesic; and something else that I am at a loss to account for – a drug that renders the brain open to suggestion. I have encountered it before, but its use has been banned in most of the worlds who belong to the medical council. It is highly addictive, and it has very dangerous side effects, particularly if used repeatedly: it can induce paranoia, and in extreme cases, it can even kill."

"But Trip's okay?"

"Yes, I am glad to say. He will have to be treated to prevent withdrawal symptoms for a few days, but on the whole he escaped very lightly."

The captain sat down on a vacant biobed and tried to fit this information into the picture of the situation that he'd been trying to put together. So far it was like a jigsaw with too many pieces missing, and this one didn't seem to fit anywhere. "How did they think they'd get away with it?" he asked, more to himself than in any expectation of an answer.

Phlox shrugged. "For short-term control purposes, it would be effective. The commander explained to me what happened; they also appear to have the ability to effectively wipe out periods of memory, so if he had submitted it would have served its purpose. Certainly they have advanced medical techniques. I found evidence of dermal regeneration on several sites around his body – notably his wrists. They were so clinically perfect that if I had not been looking for them very carefully I very much doubt whether I would have noticed them at all."

"So why didn't they wipe out_ all_ of his memory before they let him go?"

"I believe Lieutenant Reed is still a prisoner." The great blue eyes were very sad. "I suspect that wiping Commander Tucker's memory completely would have saved him from knowing that his colleague's plight was, in part, his fault for refusing to co-operate."

"But the trade agreement! They'd have to know this would put the whole thing at risk! Just for _revenge?"_

Another shrug. "I have no certainties, Captain. I put forward theories, no more. And you yourself must know that this planet's mineral resources make maintaining the Council's goodwill a source of very great interest indeed to Starfleet. You would need to produce proof – irrefutable proof – before bringing any formal charges, even if Starfleet would permit you to do so. At present, all we have is evidence of drug misuse, beneficial medical treatment and a story that fits the 'paranoia' side-effect beautifully."

Archer breathed hard. In effect, he had to wait yet again. In just over another hour – assuming the weather conditions hadn't worsened again – he could contact the Council and demand information about Malcolm. They couldn't just say he'd 'disappeared;' they'd have to account for him somehow. Not even the acquisitiveness of certain influential government departments back on Earth could persuade Starfleet to overlook the kidnap and murder of a valuable officer.

Well.

That was the theory.

In the meantime, they'd damn well keep on searching.

If nothing else, he wanted the body back. So Phlox could tell him what had happened.

* * *

"He's still alive – but you're not _returning_ him?"

Captain Archer stared at the viewscreen, momentarily stunned by the airy statement. He felt, rather than saw, Trip take a pace forward, and gestured urgently to the chief engineer to keep out of it for a minute. There had to be some kind of mistranslation here.

"Is he not recovered enough?" he asked. That was the explanation that sprang immediately to mind. That was _reasonable. _It didn't account for nearly enough of what had happened, including the fact that _Enterprise_'s scanners hadn't been able to detect the lieutenant's biosigns, but it was a straw of hope to clutch on to in what felt like a tornado of conflicting evidence.

"There was an unfortunate – incident last night. Your lieutenant awoke in the medical facility and his curiosity apparently overrode his caution. He evidently decided to experiment with certain substances, probably thinking they were safe to use for recreational purposes. Our medical team has managed to repair a certain amount of the damage, but unfortunately he will be of no further use to you as an officer. As a gesture of reparation to yourself we will take on ourselves his future care, and should he make any significant further recovery the D'hoja has decided that she will accept his services as a goodwill gesture from Starfleet."

The President appeared to find all this both understandable and acceptable. Unfortunately for him, Jonathan Archer was having serious problems with it. He rose from his command chair and allowed the disbelief and anger to show in his face.

"There appears to have been some misunderstanding. My armory officer is the last man in the world to 'experiment' with unknown substances for 'recreational purposes,' and if any medical care is required after some 'incident' " – he poured singularly undiplomatic scorn into that word – "then this ship is more than capable of supplying it. Furthermore, Starfleet doesn't make a practice of handing its personnel over as 'goodwill gestures.' I'm sorry for any disappointment the D'hoja may feel, but I'm going to have to insist on her returning my armory officer."

"That would not be an appropriate request." The face on the viewscreen turned flinty.

"It wasn't a 'request.' " He leaned forward slightly. "We've put a lot of work into establishing friendly relations. The trade agreement would benefit both you and Starfleet. It would be a pity to put that at risk."

"I perceive no reason at all why it should be put at any risk," Arritar replied, obviously put out by the suggestion.

"It would be put at very serious risk," T'Pol intervened smoothly. "For one thing, Starfleet does not establish trade relationships with cultures who practice slavery."

_"Slavery?" _He couldn't have sounded more offended. "There is no question of the lieutenant being a slave!"

"He sure wouldn't be stayin' down there of his own free will!" shouted Trip. He'd fought off the effects of the sedation somewhat and insisted on coming up here to see for himself what went on. The medic who'd accompanied him from Sickbay to monitor his well-being touched his arm anxiously; he wasn't supposed to agitate himself.

An expression of injured innocence slid onto the president's bland features. "I assure you that is indeed the case."

"Then I'm sure you won't mind us speaking to him to verify that for ourselves," Archer snapped.

"You are perfectly welcome to do so. I shall speak to the D'hoja to establish a time when your visit will be convenient to her."

"I'm grateful for your offer I'm sure, but it's not necessary. Just put him on the comm link and let me talk to him." He had no intention of that being enough, but it was a test that ought to give him _some_ sort of information. He had the result he wanted – or at least part of it, in that the president's hitherto calm gaze slid away briefly.

"That will not be appropriate."

"Would you mind explaining to me exactly why not?" The captain's voice was hard with suspicion that he made no attempt to disguise. Diplomacy was one thing; kidnapping was something else altogether.

"Because he is no longer in a condition where he would be able to use it."

The sickening shock these words produced held their hearers momentarily dumb. Hoshi was perhaps the first to react. She and Travis had returned to the bridge to witness what might be the outcome of the interview, and she swayed back into her friend's supporting arm, a hand to her mouth as if she was about to vomit. Her face was the color of chalk.

"What the hell have you done to him?" yelled Trip, pale with fury.

"He is perfectly safe and well," the Siurh-hal replied testily. "I assure you he is in no danger and will be perfectly well-treated. You need have no anxiety whatsoever for his well-being."

"I want to see for myself exactly what 'condition' my officer is in." Archer held his temper with the most extreme difficulty, his brain churning with rage and fear. "And after that, I want you to reverse whatever you've done to him and return him to my ship – intact, and immediately!"

"I have already agreed that you may see him." The reply was far too quick and smooth. "But when you have done so, you will probably agree that leaving him where he is will be the best outcome – for everyone concerned."

The captain breathed slowly and hard. "I think further discussion just became absolutely pointless," he said. "Please contact us when it will be 'convenient' for me to see my officer and talk to him. And I'd appreciate it being very goddamn soon – if you value that trade agreement as much as you say you do."

At his nod Ensign Claverley cut the connection. The silence on the bridge afterward was so thick you could have sliced it up and spread it on toast.

He glanced at Hoshi. Her eyes were dark pools of horror, and he did his best to smile reassuringly at her, even though he didn't feel half as confident as he tried to look. No doubt she and Malcolm had thought they were the only people on the ship who were aware of their attraction towards each other.

"Senior officers to my ready room. Now." He looked at T'Pol and then at Trip. "Who's on duty in the Armory at the moment?"

"Gomez, sir," the engineer replied after the barest pause for thought.

"Get her up here." Archer didn't wait to hear the summons, but turned and stalked into his ready room, his Vulcan XO at his heels. "Tell Phlox I'll take care of Trip for now," he flung back over his shoulder at the dithering medic.

They waited in silence till Trip and then Em had joined them. It was the work of a moment to fill in for the armory's second-in-command the details of her boss's predicament; her lovely face hardened and her hands clenched into fists. It was probably inevitable that her Latin temperament found a vent in language not often heard in the captain's presence; he'd occasionally wondered how two people as unlike as the cool Englishman and his fiery Gamma shift deputy had achieved and maintained such a good working relationship as they had.

"_¡Hijos de puta! ¡Puňetero cabrón! _Give us the word and we'll bust him out of there, Captain."

"It may not be that simple. We need to find out first exactly where he's being held and what they've done to him. After that, I'll have a clearer picture to give you." He drummed his fingers on the table. "And if possible, we need to get him back without damaging diplomatic relations."

"You're not gonna let them get away with it!" Trip burst out.

"Of course I'm not!" snapped the captain. "But this trade agreement is important to a lot of people. If there's any way to salvage it and get Malcolm back, I'd _prefer_ to do it that way. If not, the agreement can go to hell."

Satisfied with that promise, the chief engineer subsided, scowling.

"It is hardly likely that Starfleet will choose to establish trading relations with a race who practice kidnapping and torture," said T'Pol in her driest voice. "So maintaining even the fiction of the possibility of it would appear somewhat illogical."

"You know that, T'Pol. I know that. But apparently they don't. I daresay there are enough people out here who'd accept the odd casualty as a fair price for a deal like this, and in the meantime my job's to get Malcolm back in one piece. If I have to pretend that it's still possible for us to be trading partners that may give me an edge." Somehow even now he couldn't bring himself to admit aloud his fear that, even if his version of events rather than the Siurh-halla's was believed, the alliance wouldn't automatically be considered dead in the water; that in some hidden places of government, even with the unwritten 'casualty clause,' there might still be considered to be room for maneuver. And in any case, that wasn't his decision. All he had to do was try to steer clear of open sabotage – if that was possible.

"When we are given permission to visit, Captain, it may be wise to include Dr. Phlox in the landing party," she suggested, after nodding acceptance of his reasoning. "Unfortunately, it would appear likely that his expertise may be required."

Archer nodded back, trying to control his nausea at the thought of what could have been done to Malcolm to make him 'in no condition' to use a communications link. "Have him stand by. And bring him up to date with what we know, such as it is." He grimaced. His next task was to get in touch with Starfleet and advise them of these new developments, and he knew what the response was likely to be; for all his bold front, the diplomats at home were very keen indeed on the advantageous terms of this agreement. And although they'd never come out with it in so many words, the fate of one officer (who could be comfortably believed to have run into trouble through his own reckless stupidity) might weigh perilously light in the balance against the mineral riches of Serandra IV.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Please note that this story contains some mildly adult material.**

**OC Em Gomez used with the kind permission of Chrysa.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"So now we know why our scanners couldn't find him," muttered Trip, as the two of them were escorted through the corridors to a subterranean part of the Council buildings that certainly hadn't been included in their previous tour. Phlox had accompanied them down, but had been refused admittance on the basis that his skills would not be required – a claim that his commanding officer had every intention of contesting vehemently if he had the slightest cause to do so. "This place looks like it was built to withstand pretty well anythin'. I don't think anythin' the ship's got would bust into it."

The captain looked up at the ceiling. It was made of metal, like the walls. Exactly what this might be, there was no telling; the landing party had been once again forbidden to bring scanners. They'd also been forbidden to bring phase pistols and he'd complied, though not after mentioning that if he and his Chief Engineer met with any unfortunate 'incident' that prevented them from returning to the waiting shuttle in half-an-hour, the ship had orders to open fire on the council buildings. Em had taken vengeful pleasure in demolishing a small, derelict warehouse on the city's border to demonstrate what the phase cannons were capable of; it wasn't diplomatic, but it was certainly impressive.

"There will be no need for any unpleasantness, Captain," Arritar had said rather indignantly. "You and your officer will be quite safe."

_Yeah, just as long as I'm looking at him, _thought Archer grimly_. I get the feeling you're not quite confident enough to call a starship captain a liar._

The president stopped eventually in front of a metal door. "He is being held in here. When you see him, you will understand."

A few of Em's more colorful phrases flitted through the captain's mind. He wasn't sure of the exact translation, but they sounded pretty apt for the situation.

The key code was entered and the door hissed open to reveal a small room, poorly lit.

His heart pounding, Archer pushed past Trip and went in.

What he hadn't been expecting to see was a woman – sitting in a chair directly opposite the door. His immediate impression was that she was pretty, but his attention was immediately captured by what was crouched on the floor beside her feet.

Malcolm.

Except that the Armory Officer was apparently pretending to be a dog. The only thing he was wearing was a thick collar around his neck, anchored to the wall behind the chair by a chain. Around his brow was one of the headbands all of the Siurh-halla wore – the badge, no doubt, of his future servitude. He was looking up at the woman with blank complacency, his chin resting on her knee as she stroked his hair, but as he heard the footsteps in the room his head twitched around and his expression changed utterly.

In another world, another situation, it might have been funny. Now, however, as they stared at a face from which all trace of humanity had been excised, there was only horror. He was growling so that all his teeth showed, his fingers stiffening into claws.

"Lie down." The command was given quite quietly, even fondly, but with absolute confidence that it would be obeyed. And it was. The lieutenant subsided onto all fours, his elbows to the floor, but he went on watching them, his lips curling back malignantly. One elegant, sandal-clad foot rose and came to rest lightly on the back of his neck as she sat back in the chair. The stones in her coronet sparkled, even in the low light.

"I am sorry that you had to be a witness to this, Captain," the woman said gently, winding a tendril of her dark hair calmly around her finger. "We tried to spare you."

For a few seconds Archer couldn't find his voice. It was strangled in his throat somewhere as he watched the thing that had used to be his armory officer glaring at him without a shred of recognition.

"I have naturally punished those who should have been supervising him better," the soft voice went on. "But they were not to know that he would take such terrible risks with things he evidently did not understand."

"What – what's wrong with him?" Trip evidently had better luck, but even he was stuttering with shock.

"The drug he injected himself with has affected his brain. In his mind he has become what he has always thought himself to be. A protector. A watchdog." Perhaps it was just suspicion that perceived the faint sympathetic, downward turn of her mouth as mocking. "And he has decided it is his duty to protect me."

"And you couldn't _help _him?" the captain burst out.

Her eyebrow lifted. "We did everything possible. I myself attempted to contact him and recover his identity. We do not readily initiate mental contact between ourselves and those of other species; it can be traumatic for them. But rest assured that I did my best."

So much for any deposition to a Starfleet investigation on what Hoshi had experienced. However it had happened that the linguist 'saw' what was happening, it could be perfectly readily accounted for as a desperate attempt to help a deranged man who was past any help. Here and now, everything in Archer's experience cried out _Liar!_, but the tribunal would be held light years away, if it was ever convened at all, and by then perhaps there truly would not be anything at all left of Malcolm Reed that anyone, anywhere, could salvage. If indeed there was anything now.

Trip couldn't handle it. _"We want him back!" _he screamed.

She gave no sign, but suddenly Malcolm exploded forward from beneath her foot. He shot to the limit of his chain, slavering, throttling himself against the collar. Exactly like a dog's forelegs, his arms dangled almost uselessly; he didn't even seem to be trying to stand upright. His jaws snapped on empty air with audible clicks as he choked and snarled. His eyes on them were empty save for a wilderness of threats.

"My dog does not recognize you," she said softly. "I think it time that you leave."

Trip uttered a small strangled sound. "Jon, we –"

"You want to bring that thing back on the ship?" Archer's voice was hard. "We tried, Trip. We lost him. Better leave while that's all we've lost."

No amount of diplomatic training would force a farewell out of him as he spun on his heel and walked out. He knew what had happened; she knew that he knew. And right now there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

President Arritar said nothing as he escorted them back to the shuttle. Perhaps he had a lively sense of self-preservation. The wrong word out of him now would have sent Trip into free-fall, and Archer was too tired to know how to stop whatever would have ensued.

They took off and headed back for the ship. The silence on board seemed to have taken on an existence in its own right. Neither of them broke it until they'd shut down the engines and Trip sat in the pilot's seat as though carved into stone.

"Jon, tell me we're not leavin' him there."

The captain waited until the blond head turned. The blue eyes were utterly desperate.

"Don't be a damned fool. Of course we're not."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

He strode onto the bridge and summoned all his heads of department into his ready room. It made the place crowded, but he didn't want to run the risk of missing out on a single opinion.

In brief sentences he spelled out what had happened and what they were up against. The only thing he omitted was the fine detail of Malcolm's delusional state; the fewer let into that, the better. (After the difficulty the reticent Englishman had plainly had in confiding the fact that he was aquaphobic, he could imagine how mortified he'd be to find it was common knowledge around the ship that he'd believed himself to be a dog.) Then he told them he wanted them to go away, study every word of the reports, and come up with a solution. In twenty-four hours they were to have a workable plan. If that included force, then so be it.

After they'd all gone he went out onto the bridge and gave the order to break orbit.

* * *

Trip went first to Engineering, but he couldn't think there. He needed somewhere he could concentrate. He wandered around the ship for a while, trying to get rid of that terrible image that filled his brain to the exclusion of virtually everything else: Malcolm reduced to the state of animality, stripped of humanity and dignity alike, without awareness, without hope; perhaps the fact that he probably knew nothing of his fall was the only blessing.

He'd seen a picture once of a dog in the grip of rabies, a disease that had thankfully been eradicated on Earth where it had once been a killer. The wide, empty, frenzied stare had been just the same as Malcolm's, the crazed and terrifying aggression graphically caught by the camera. The realization that his self-controlled, intelligent and sensitive friend had been brought down to that state tore at his heart. And Hoshi; what in the world were they to tell Hoshi?

He found himself at the last place he would have come if he'd been paying attention – the Armory. He walked inside. Em was sitting in front of the tactical console, her elbows on her knees, her fists bunched under her chin. Her gaze seemed to snare him as soon as he was through the door.

"Talk to me, Commander," she said as he came to a halt just in front of her. "Show him to me."

It wasn't the time for irrelevant notions of coyness; they were alone, and he trusted her implicitly to keep her knowledge secret. He told her about the metal corridor deep underground, the small room, the woman, the chair, the chain, the collar, the nakedness, the insanity.

Anyone less focused would have wept as she listened. Gomez was stone.

"There's something you've missed, Commander," she said when he'd run out of words. "Go over it again."

So he went over it again. And again, and again, and again, till he could hardly remember what he'd told her and what he hadn't, and his words tripped over one another with weariness and his voice was husky with tears. The metal corridor, the room, the woman, the chair, the chain, the collar, the nakedness, the insanity. The metal corridor, the room, the woman, the chair, the chain, the collar, the nakedness, the insanity. The metal corridor the room the woman the chair the chain the collar the nakedness the insanity. The metal corridor the room the woman the chair the chain the collar the headband the –

_"What did you say?" _ Em's voice hit him like a rattlesnake's strike between the eyes.

He blinked at her. He was swaying where he stood. "He… he was wearin' a headband. They all wear 'em."

_"Why?"_

Between emotion and exhaustion he couldn't think of a reason. All of the people they'd encountered had worn them: various metals, various styles, some ornamented, some plain. Insofar as he'd thought about it at all he'd thought of it as some kind of cultural thing.

Now, for the first time, he wondered why anyone would put one on a dog.

She was leaning forward, staring into his mind, sharing his thoughts. For the first time he saw the similarity between her and her boss: the same implacable determination to protect her own, the same clinical ability to pinpoint the flaw in the picture, the same predatory urge to get into action.

"Let's go talk to the cap'n."

* * *

"There is a specific wavelength that appears to be present throughout the city at all times." T'Pol looked up from the display on the situation room graphics table. "It required considerable care to isolate it, because there is so much traffic on or around that frequency, possibly designed to camouflage it. But it is a constant. Its source is somewhere within the Council buildings. We cannot identify exactly where."

"I can make a guess," growled Trip.

"Certain metals are highly sensitive to particular stimuli," said Amanda Harries, head of the Metallurgy team. "There have been studies that gave indications of one in particular that could be synthesized to resonate in synchrony with brain waves, under certain highly specific conditions. It's extremely rare, and our scanners didn't detect it on Serandra IV. But there were traces of the type of ore where it can be found."

Archer cocked an eye at Phlox. "Doctor, your opinion?"

"I had heard of it, but the results were inconclusive. I can't specifically rule it out."

"Captain, we should exercise great care." T'Pol was frowning. "If our hypothesis is correct, we are speaking of something that is central to the Siurh'hal civilization. Our intervention could quite possibly be responsible for destroying it."

"A civilization based on _controllin'_ everyone?" Trip broke in hotly.

"Yes. Even that should be protected from outside influence. It is not our right to interfere, whether or not we approve."

"I'm not interested in destroying it." The captain interrupted sharply. "I want to know if we can take advantage of it."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**OC Em Gomez used by kind permission of Chrysa.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The ship came in fast, faster than was technically either advisable or safe in a crowded system like this, swerving around the outer planets with terrifying speed so that the Siurh-halla should not detect her until the very last moment and deploy their ships in defense.

So much of their preparation had been best-guesswork, patched together on what scanty information they had; there would be no second chances. Forewarned would be forearmed. The enemy would not be caught napping twice.

_Enterprise _tore around the massive curve of Serandra V so close that the hull glowed with the friction and the dampeners had to fight to compensate for the shuddering as the ship skipped off the top layer of the troposphere like a flung stone across water.

And as she came, the deft fingers of her chief engineer flung all the power that could be spared from every non-vital system on board into the almost unrecognizable communications console on the bridge.

A wall of 'white noise' was about to envelop Serandra IV.

* * *

The D'hoja left the Council chamber in an extremely good humor. The meeting had gone well, there was every prospect of the new trade agreement holding, and she had defeated and humiliated yet another enemy. She had ruled for amply long enough now to know exactly what balance existed between pragmatism and sentiment when it came to potential customers for her world's staggering mineral resources, and Archer had known it too. His helpless rage had been delightful to witness.

It had been a pity, of course, that her chosen consort for the evening from among the visitors had – for some reason – been able to resist her. Her initial analysis hadn't suggested that these humans had that kind of capability. Nevertheless when she tried to begin infiltrating his mind she'd encountered a wall of resistance that she hadn't expected. Shock and anger were emotions she'd almost forgotten how to feel, but worst of all had been the blow to her vanity. It was already raw from the first rejection, and this was worse: the first had rejected her charm, but this man had presumed to reject her as a lover, not once but twice! How dared he? How _dared _he?

No one – _no one – _resisted her. No one!

The exquisitely appropriate payback for that insult had occurred to her almost immediately. He should be allowed to see, and left to remember. She thought that the memory would haunt him for the rest of his life, with luck.

On that thought she turned, smiling, and made her way to the kennel. Her new pet would be kept alive for as long as his existence continued to entertain her. It was really no more than poetic justice for him to end his days believing that he truly was what he'd tried so hard to personify. And besides, his fit, hard body was not without its own interest. It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that it might provide her with a night's amusement if she chose to allow that much of his brain function to return briefly. Though that would have to take place soon. Poor diet and lack of exercise would soon cause it to begin to deteriorate. She foresaw accurately and without pity that the time would come when malnourishment and perpetual imprisonment would send even the animal mind permanently insane, and then her control and her interest (if of course that lasted so long) would alike be unnecessary. Maybe someone would take it upon themselves to shoot him and put him out of his misery, though it was more likely that they would simply forget to bring him water. It would achieve the same end and be less trouble.

As she turned into the corridor where the kennel was situated a stray memory crossed her thoughts. During the process where she'd completed the takeover of his mind (she always did it when they were conscious, the struggle and the mastery were agonizing for them, delicious for her), there had been, as had happened occasionally before, a moment when he'd been able to snatch just a fraction of her mental power into his own control. He was strong, he'd been well-trained to resist invasion; he'd put up an incredible fight. But for those few seconds he'd slipped from her grasp and reached out with that stolen power, reached out to someone who mattered, as if trying to say goodbye...

A woman. The D'hoja sniffed dismissively. That had been the second worst mistake of his life, and the last. He'd had the chance to contact someone who could have at least tried to save him, and he'd wasted it on a silly, simpering female.

As she keyed in the last character of the door code, however, the world as she'd known it since she took up the mantle of power fell apart.

_The Signal. The Signal had gone!_

The lack of sensation in her coronet was worse and more total than absolute blindness. From birth she'd been trained to use The Signal to mesh seamlessly into that intricate web of life that was Siurh-hal society, and how to control it utterly when her time came to rule. Generations ago it had been decided, at the end of the last of a number of wars that had all but destroyed their species, that their continued survival depended on absolute co-operation. The only way that could be achieved among a people as gifted and powerful and quarrelsome as theirs was to enforce it. Their scientists had already been aware of the properties of one of the metals their world possessed. It had taken some time and effort to refine it to what was required, but eventually it had been done. After that it had only been necessary to determine who should wear the controller and guide the Council. Men, it had been decided, were too prone to quarrelling. Women, on the other hand, desired primarily that peace and order should be maintained. So a woman it had been, and a woman it had stayed ever since. And the system had worked. The planet had peace. Certainly there had been some who resisted the new order, but given the summary choice between submitting or dying, most had been sensible. Those who had not been sensible had been weeded out. Within a century no one even remembered that there had ever been any other way to live. The Signal was as much a part of their consciousness as the sound of their own breathing.

And now, suddenly, without warning, it had disappeared.

Almost sobbing with disorientation and panic, she stumbled into the room. _How could The Signal be gone? How could it have failed? _Chaos, rebellion, civil war – the horrors that Serandra IV had left behind generations ago would rear their ugly heads again, as surely as night followed day, if The Signal was lost. And what of her safety? As long as The Signal protected her and she stayed broadly within the confines of the law, she'd been at liberty to do pretty well anything she pleased. If The Signal was gone – really and truly gone, for good – a lot of people's memories would inconveniently reappear; memories that she'd been able to suppress by using it. Instead of governing a world full of docile, pliable subjects, she'd be held to account for the advantage she'd taken of her position of all but ultimate power.

But what fool wouldn't have done the same, in her place?

She was so beside herself, wrenching frantically at the coronet that was suddenly no more than a fancy piece of metal around her forehead, that she momentarily lost track of where she was and what she was doing. She hadn't put the lights on either.

Who would waste electricity on showing a dog his surroundings?

If he'd attacked like a cat, using his forepaws, he'd have had her. As it was he used his teeth, lunging out of the darkness in deadly silence and going straight for her throat.

Perhaps the width of half a link of chain saved her windpipe. Nevertheless his weight hit her hard and the open jaws scored down her shoulder, trying to get a grip. His forepaws scrabbled at her, ripping her priceless robes.

She shrieked in rage as she fell back out of his range, her hand going up automatically to where bloody teeth marks stood out starkly on the whiteness of her shoulder beneath the torn fabric. Her priority must be to rush to the Signal Room and restore power, do whatever was necessary to pull her rule back from the brink, but now – _first –!_

The violence of his attack had knocked the control band off his head. At either temple the electrodes glimmered in the low light from the door. Once she'd conditioned him, it had been necessary for these to be inserted into his brain to maintain the delusion. She knew they were there, of course, but she'd made sure the band was fashioned to cover them. She always did. They looked so ugly, so ... _functional._ As ugly and functional as he did now, crouched straining at the limit of his chain, licking the blood off his mouth and snarling.

"You'll regret that," she told him softly.

There had been repair work going on in one of the rooms just up the corridor outside. It was the work of a moment for her to fetch a length of metal reinforcement. All she had to do was move a little closer, temptingly so, and he'd attack again, pitifully predictable. As soon as he was at full stretch towards her she'd break his jaw with the duranium bar. Then she'd break every bone in his forelegs. Maybe she'd break his hindlegs as well, before she left him to die alone and in agony in the dark.

"I think you'd better put that down," said a steely voice behind her, speaking perfect Siure.

She turned, gaping. Nobody in all her life before had ever come even close to giving her an order.

_They were back._

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**OC Em Gomez used by kind permission of Chrysa.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

_"Madre de Dios_, I hope he remembers that when he recovers," said Em in a low voice. She was keeping watch in the corridor, her phase pistol at the ready; the council rooms above them were swarming with bewildered people deprived of direction that they'd had all their lives, and no one could tell how they'd react. As the landing team had left the shuttle and raced into the building she'd been reminded vividly of the inhabitants of an overset anthill. Siurh-halla peered at them and backed away, not knowing who they were or what to do about it.

They hadn't stopped to ask permission or explain their presence – neither was in the plan. They'd come down here in a rush, intent only on securing the prisoner and beating a hasty retreat.

Beside her, Hoshi rubbed her knuckles and looked down with satisfaction at the still figure on the floor. "You think he'd be proud of me?"

"I think he'd give you a commendation. Remind me never to threaten him when you're around."

The comm officer grinned proudly, though the expression wavered somewhat as she glanced into the room behind them, where the sound of a hypospray had ended a small, savage struggle. Phlox and the captain had had to throw a blanket over Malcolm to allow them to get close enough to sedate him; now they'd freed him from that cruel collar and the doctor was bending over him, carrying out a rapid medical assessment.

The Denobulan looked up at that moment and nodded.

"Let's go." Archer bundled the inert officer up in the blanket and hoisted him in his arms.

"And let's make it fast." Gomez knew that it would only be a relatively short time before at least some of the Siurh-halla started to gather their wits. They'd infallibly identify the intruders. Then, at a guess, they'd attack. When the four of them got out of here with their rescued man, they might have a hot reception.

Ideally, she'd first thought, it would have been better to stick to the original plan and have herself and another member of the weapons team as part of the landing party – one who she knew could keep his mouth shut. But there had been a short sharp exchange of verbal fire in the shuttle bay which Hoshi had won and Andrew had lost (Captain Archer, inexplicably, had said nothing), and Hoshi had taken possession of the second phase pistol and stepped into the shuttle with an expression of concentrated ferocity.

_Way to go, girl. _It wasn't as though Hoshi's interest was as secret from her friends as she probably hoped, but Em knew that the crewman standing behind Trip, who was monitoring the launch from the control area, was one of the rumor mill's most prolific contributors and certainly wouldn't have failed to put two and two together. _ You might as well have posted a circular. Still, I suppose technically we might need a translator who can handle a gun._

That expression was back on Hoshi's face now as the two of them moved back towards the door at the top of the corridor. Nobody looking at her would have guessed that when she'd joined the ship she'd been marked down as an incurable 'chicken.' She admitted herself that she'd been within an ace of quitting, unable to cope with the hard hostile reality of space exploration. But she'd changed, she'd learned, she'd grown, and much of it had been achieved under the patient tutelage of the man being carried unconscious behind them.

The Japanese were scrupulous about repaying their debts. And they made really _bad_ enemies.

With a faint grin, Em took 'point.' She flattened herself against the wall, ready to fire, and gestured to Hoshi to open the door.

Nothing.

They sped silently to the next junction; looked around it with care, weapons at the ready.

Still nothing.

She checked her chronometer. They had a strict timetable. So far they were still on schedule – just. They hadn't dared order Travis to keep the shuttle on the ground; he'd taken off and would return to rendezvous with them in just under ten minutes. So – they had just that long to reach the terrace. There was no question of returning to the courtyard where he'd set down to let them out. That would be far too obvious a target.

She knew exactly where they were heading. The members of the original landing party had given her excellent directions regarding the layout of the building, including the route to the banqueting hall with its broad terrace outside, just wide enough for a superb pilot like Travis to land the shuttle on. It wasn't even far from their present position; everything depended on how fast the Siurh-halla were at gathering their wits and mustering effective opposition.

Not very, it seemed. When she and Hoshi burst into the great reception hall, flooded with acid lemon sunlight, there were only a few of the enemy visible, wandering around with the same look of absolute disorientation – except that now it was beginning to be tinged with fear. She knew from experience that fear is a fast breeding ground for hostility. At any minute now that could appear.

"Pistols on stun, remember! Come on! _Move!"_ She let Hoshi move up to point, herself falling back to cover the rear. It was easier for a novice to operate walking forward. Moving backward steadily, firing as you did so, was more the province of an expert.

They reached the foot of the wide, sunlit stairs. A Siurh-hal there stepped forward, trying to block their path. "What are you doing here?" His voice was jagged with nerves. And the illusion of humanity was starting to slip. The suggestion of a face that occasionally manifested itself was chiefly noticeable for the number of teeth.

"Get out of the way. We don't want to have to hurt you." Archer's voice, steady, authoritative. She could picture the level hazel eyes.

A pause. Gomez watched the doors, kept the pistol ready to swing in any direction. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger. She hoped Hoshi would remember her training properly if things kicked off. _Squeeze, don't pull. It throws your aim off._

"There's no need for anyone to get hurt." Phlox, at his most soothing. "We just want to take our friend and leave. Then things will go back to normal."

A shuffle of uncertain feet. By no means convinced, but that proffer of the return of normality was too tempting. The armory officer watched him as she went past, his gaze bewildered and hostile, his fingers rubbing against the metal band around his head.

There were two other men at the curve of the stairs. She saw them out of the corner of her eye. These might be more of a problem. They were conferring in angry whispers. Hoshi's super-sensitive hearing would easily pick up what they were saying. _Don't take risks, girl. If in doubt, shoot._

"That really wouldn't be a good idea." Sato's voice was clear, cold, carrying, confident, convincing. "You want to try it, fine. Go ahead. It'll be your funeral."

_Boss, I swear to the good God, you are missing something you won't believe. _Em felt a surge of proprietorial pride on his behalf; it could have been Malcolm himself speaking, with the icy assurance of generations of aristocratic Reeds behind it. _If you don't marry her after this, _así que me ayude, _I'll lock you up and marry her myself._

It worked, at least to the extent that the men stepped reluctantly aside and let them pass. Gomez, watching them carefully as she followed the others up the stairs, saw them suddenly dart aside and glide rapidly to the hall, where they disappeared through the nearest door. She could have dropped both of them easily, but there were others watching and they might not take the time to notice that the pistol had been set only on stun. Minimum provocation, the captain had said.

There were plenty more people in this building though, who were only waiting to be told what to do. It was odds-on that reinforcements would very soon be on the way.

"Better get a move on!" she yelled.

"Phlox, you'll have to carry Malcolm from here."

"Certainly, Captain." They transferred him easily; he growled sleepily, but didn't wake.

As soon as he was free of his burden, the captain drew his own phase pistol and the knot of anxiety in Em's stomach loosened just a little. They hurried up more of the steps; so many goddamned steps, broad heavy slabs of polished blue stone with ornate balustrades, pitiful protection if a fire fight broke out.

The doors in the hall below slammed open.

_"Take cover!"_

If the balustrades were all there was, that's what they'd have to use. The four of them fell into their scanty shelter while lances of blue fire criss-crossed above their heads and pried viciously between the richly carved supports. Phlox interposed his body between Malcolm and the shots; Em, noticing it, spared another grin for how mortified her boss would have been if he'd known.

There was absolutely no point in restraint now. She picked out a target and fired almost in one movement. More shots from beside her took advantage of the fact that the Siurh-halla apparently believed that numerical advantage acted as some kind of mystical shield for those in the front. Seven or eight sprawling bodies within the first couple of seconds soon disillusioned the rearward members of the pack. Their misguided enthusiasm wavered visibly; their new organization was too fragile to enforce mass suicide. The circumstances didn't permit anyone time to notice that the fallen weren't actually dead.

Instead of mounting the stair, which would have given them a victory – though it would have been a costly one in terms of numbers – they scattered, looking for shelter. The fire became sporadic.

Lingering could only bring more reinforcements, and very soon numbers would tell and someone would decide that casualties were irrelevant. The landing party had to go, and go now.

_"As soon as I start firing, the rest of you get the hell out of here!"_

_"That order is countermanded, Ensign. We go together or we don't go at all!"_

Under her breath she unleashed a Spanish profanity, but there was no time to argue. "One, two, three, _VAMOS!"_

With a helping push from Captain Archer to lift the tactical officer's dead weight, Phlox stumbled back to his feet. He ran up the last couple of steps, Hoshi scrambling beside him, trying to cover a large field of fire that included the double doors they were aiming for. Em and the captain were right behind them, firing at anything that moved down in the hallway.

There was no time for checking what was behind the double doors. More of the enemy were flooding into the open space below.

Hoshi plunged forward, smashing the doors open with all the strength her small body contained. Em snatched a glance backward over her shoulder, her stomach clenching with the dread of seeing ranks of Siurh-halla just waiting for them.

Lemon sunlight washed through an empty room. Through the huge windows at the far side of it she saw the shape of the shuttle angling down out of the small, puffy white clouds.

"I think the trade agreement might be history, _Capitán_," she panted as the two of them loosed a final volley at the first few foolhardy souls to try rushing the stairs.

"I think you might be right." He grinned down at her. "What a shame."

And the two of them took off in pursuit of Hoshi and Phlox.

Bright level sunshine, broad airy space, echoing footsteps bouncing off the walls. Energy released in a burst of speed, like sprinters off starting blocks with life the prize, and the glass starting to shiver with the vibration of the shuttle's engines as Travis eased it down, knocking over several of the tubs of flowers in a glorious Technicolor mess that nobody gave a damn about.

The terrace door was locked, but a hard kick with a boot took care of that.

They spilled onto the terrace. The shuttle door was lifting open. _"Come on!" _There was sporadic fire from the ground below, nothing yet the craft couldn't withstand but that could change and almost certainly would.

In a breathless heap they spilled in anyhow, scrambling to get in fast enough to get the door closed. Yells from the grand room behind them were prophets of imminent attack; one or two bright blue beams found their way through the shattered terrace door and did various bits of the shuttle's technology no particular good, but fortunately none of the afflicted parts had anything much to do with propulsion, which was all that mattered right now. The door closed with a triumphant clang.

"Get us back to the ship, Travis! And as soon as they've got us hauled in, we get the hell out of here!"

And as the shuttle lifted gracefully from the stone slabs into the bright sky, Captain Archer dropped into the navigator's seat and laughed aloud.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**OC Em Gomez used by kind permission of Chrysa.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Trip, the captain wants you to go down into the shuttle for a minute."

The engineer's face behind the glass window of the control box took on an anxious look. Travis had been sent up to pass a message on to him from the captain, who'd remained behind.

"Everythin' go okay?"

"Yes, there's just something he said he wants sorted before they finish up in there."

The rest of the landing party waited while Trip scooted obediently down the stairs and keyed in the door code. He immediately looked for Malcolm, now lying senseless on the floor; having seen him, he turned and stared at the captain.

"Shut the door and make sure the comms are off," ordered Archer quietly.

When this was done, he looked around at the puzzled faces of the rest of the landing party.

"I want to make one thing clear," he said carefully. "There's one thing about this that I left out of the reports I sent to Starfleet, and I intend to leave it out of every record of this incident. And I want your sworn words before you get out of here that you will never mention it either, not even to each other. _Especially_ to the person concerned." He looked down at his tactical officer. "If I have any say in it, as far as Malcolm will ever know he was chained up and drugged, and that's all. The last thing he'd be able to cope with is knowing he thought he was a _dog –_ and especially that some of us saw him that way." He looked at Phlox. "I hope, I believe, that the doc can cure what they did to him physically. And I hope for his sake that he doesn't remember anything that happened, the way he was treated. If he doesn't, he's not to hear a single word of it from anyone else."

"I think I can ensure that he will not remember, Captain," said Phlox gravely. "At least not consciously. The subconscious, of course, is a different thing."

"Well as far as the records are concerned, and the rest of us are concerned, and as far as every damned person on the ship is concerned, anything he hinks he might remember is just part of the delusion. If he asks, that's the story. And that's an order. Is that absolutely clear?"

Trip hesitated only briefly. He would have had material for almost unlimited teasing out of this, but he surely knew Malcolm well enough by now to realize that the Brit, always so sensitive of his dignity, really wouldn't be able to cope with what had been done to him, let alone being laughed at over it. The best of friends have to know where the limits are, and this was way, way beyond the lieutenant's. He nodded. "Clear as daylight, Cap'n."

Everyone else nodded too.

"And if I hear a single word on the rumor mill – _Dios te ayude!"_ said Em, scowling in Tucker's direction.

"Not a word – honest!" The engineer sat back and raised his hands, trying unsuccessfully to achieve an expression of injured innocence. "Anyone would think ..."

"We don't think – we know!" Hoshi jabbed him in the ribs. "It sure won't be me, so that only leaves one suspect!"

"Okay, okay," he grumbled. "I already promised not to say anythin'!"

"Then if that is settled, I think the sooner we get the lieutenant down to sickbay the better." Phlox keyed the door control. "I shall fetch a gurney and some additional sedatives. The last thing we need is him recovering consciousness even partly before I get him into surgery."

"Yeah, it'd be kinda hard to hush up if he jumped off the gurney and started growlin' at people." Trip plainly couldn't resist a parting shot. "Though come to think of it, I'm not sure anyone would notice the difference."

"TRIP!" The younger man flinched satisfactorily from the glower. "That's enough!"

"Sorry, Cap'n."

Archer turned away so they didn't catch sight of the smile pulling at his mouth in spite of himself. Time enough for humor when he had his tactical officer back safe and sound. Maybe then he'd be able to let himself see the funny side of it. Right now there was nothing for him to do but report his actions to Starfleet and await developments. And, of course, accompany Malcolm down to sickbay and see him go into surgery – after which there would be nothing for him to do there either. Except wait.

God, how he just hated waiting.

* * *

"Phlox to Captain Archer."

"Archer here."

"He's coming round, Captain."

"Good. I'll be there in a minute."

He dropped the ball and rubbed Porthos's ears. "Want to come and see your Uncle Malcolm, buddy?"

It was unlikely that the little beagle grasped the full concept of the offer, but he was certainly fully alive to the prospect of a walk around the ship instead of lying in anxious silence with the silent, preoccupied pack alpha who'd returned after shift duty. He jumped up, wagging his tail.

"Yeah, I feel a bit like that too. Looks like after my last report I might even get away with endangering the trade agreement. With any luck, they'll just have the sense to let it die quietly, but we've done all we could, haven't we, boy?"

Porthos evidently agreed that they had; at any rate, he barked enthusiastically. Jon grinned as he pressed the door control button. "Just behave yourself in sickbay. And don't go barking at Malcolm. He might just start barking back."

He caught himself up on that guiltily. What happened hadn't been funny at all. Well, at least not at the time. In hindsight, now that Phlox had pronounced the surgery a complete success and all they had to do was wait for the patient to regain consciousness, it did have its amusing side. He suspected that Trip in particular was going to have a really hard time refraining from mentioning it, but the engineer was, under all his ebullience, far too kind to take advantage, however tempted he might be.

When he walked into sickbay he wasn't surprised to find that he wasn't the only visitor. Two female ensigns were ensconced by the biobed; one should be asleep right now, getting ready to start her shift in a couple of hours' time, and the other had almost certainly caught a quick snack in the Mess after her shift ended and spent the evening in here. _Malcolm's collecting a harem, huh? _He grinned. He couldn't imagine anyone on board less likely to harbor ambitions in that direction. At least not on board ship, where if one looked hard enough one could almost certainly find something in the regulations forbidding it – and his tactical officer, at a guess, would be able to quote it chapter and verse if required.

Phlox was standing watching, and the captain took up stance beside him. He pretended not to notice that Hoshi had one of Malcolm's hands in hers; it would be interesting, though, to keep an eye on how long it stayed there once the Brit was awake.

The surprisingly long, dark lashes fluttered, and then the gray eyes opened fully and blinked in dazed surprise.

"What … what happened?" he croaked. "How did I get back?"

"It's a long story, Malcolm. I think you'd be best reading up on the reports when you're up to it. You sure missed some excitement, though," said Jon affectionately.

The bewildered gaze traveled to Em. "Ensign? What are you doing here?"

"Just checking on you, _Patrón_. I'm out of here now!" She grinned at him, patted him on the shoulder and left.

He blinked after her in evident consternation, but then obviously made the discovery that his right hand was in contact with that of a junior officer in a manner strictly contrary to Starfleet regulations. He looked down at it and blushed. For an instant they all saw the intention to move it, but he didn't carry through. He let it lie there, and for a private man in front of his commanding officer that was eloquence enough.

Archer carefully hid a smile. There were a few things on board that he had to feign obliviousness to – Trip's relationship with T'Pol for one; it seemed that he now had to cultivate yet another blind spot.

"Just wanted to check you were back with us okay, Lieutenant. See, Porthos? You can stop worrying now."

The evidently baffled tactical officer looked down at the beagle as if wondering if things could possibly get any weirder. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. But at least he didn't bark.

"Everything is perfectly fine, Lieutenant," said Phlox, beaming. "You won't be resuming your duties for a few days, however. You've had to have quite a serious operation on your head, and I'm afraid you'll be here for a while so I can keep an eye on you."

It was difficult for a man already lying down to slump, but somehow Reed achieved it. "Yes, Doctor," he said in accents of the gloomiest resignation.

"I guess you won't be short of visitors, though." The captain carefully avoided looking at those linked hands. "When they're off duty, of course."

"I hope not." Malcolm didn't avoid looking at them. The small, slightly embarrassed grin was rather cute. And Hoshi had gone an equally cute shade of pink.

"Porthos, I get the feeling you and I are surplus to requirements around here." Jon looked down at his pet. "What say we go check out the Mess and see if Chef has any cheese? Just a tiny piece," he added hastily, remembering where he was.

Phlox caught the speaking look, and blinked a couple of times before he caught on.

"Why, I'm feeling a little peckish myself. I'll bring you back something for supper, Lieutenant, though I wouldn't imagine you're feeling particularly hungry yet."

The doors swished shut behind them, but unfortunately not quite fast enough to block out a murmured suggestion from Malcolm to Hoshi that he certainly wouldn't have uttered if he hadn't thought both the doctor and the captain were safely out of earshot. It appeared that not absolutely all of his delusional inclinations had been erased.

A couple of paces down the corridor Archer paused. "Did I just hear him say what I thought I did?" he asked incredulously.

"The surgery was on his brain, Captain. I imagine that other parts of his body were quite unaffected."

Archer shook his head in the effort to adjust the picture. He knew that still waters run deep, but … heck, not _that _deep. Besides, the man had only just woken up after surgery. He surely wouldn't be able to ….

He rerouted his train of thought fast. Don't go there, Jon. Just don't.

Too late.

The visual was now burned into the back of his brain. He'd never be able to look at either of them again without seeing it.

"Tell you what, Doc, after we've had something to eat would you care to watch some water polo? I've got some drinks in my cabin." He had a stash of bourbon, and some Andorian ale as well. Either. Both. Anything. Just to help him get some sleep tonight.

"Why, thank you, Captain. I'd be honored." Phlox's bright, guileless smile was no consolation. He wondered if Trip was doing anything. Where was Movie Night when you needed it? What did a captain have to do around here to have a properly run ship?

He sighed. Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.

It was a dog's life.

**The End.**

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